Restless Night
by Fernandidilly-yo
Summary: Sometimes even heroes can't sleep, but that's alright because there is always someone else awake and nearby. Or: Five times Tony couldn't sleep and the one time he did.


**This story is brought to you by my own insomnia and the fact that I've gotten _maybe_ a dozen hours of sleep within this six-day period...**

 **This fic is set sometime after Avengers 2012, so no IW spoilers.**

 **Disclaimer- I Fern, of the Fernandidilly household, own nothing.**

* * *

 **Restless Night-**

He doesn't need as much sleep since the serum, he can go days without it before he starts to truly feel fatigue, and while that's swell, it can also be lonely.

Steve sometimes finds that he has too much time on his hands, usually he would fill those nights with training in the gym or going for a run, but there are those days that Steve doesn't want to be The Soldier- where he doesn't want to push himself to the point of sleep through exercise- instead he craves a simple night in, where he can just be _Steve._

The nice thing about sharing a home with other heroes is that someone else is usually awake as well, and never too hard to find.

"What brings you to the Iron-Cave, Cap?" Tony calls from his place at a workbench. He has goggles on and a blow-torch in hand, his shirt-sleeve torn at the end. _"Hmm, Iron-Cavern? Iron-Grotto? No. Iron-Den?"_ the man mumbles to himself.

People often forget that Steve has enhanced hearing, and Tony has a habit of talking out loud to himself, it can be entertaining at times, but Steve never comments on it.

"Thought you could use the company," Steve answers, putting his sketchbook under his arm as DUM-E comes racing over to greet him. "I know I sure could."

Steve gently shakes DUM-E's hand, aware of Tony's eyes on him before the other man turns back to his project. "Yeah, sure," he says, giving a forced shrug.

Steve eyes the back of Tony's head for a moment, catching the little tells of exhaustion- the twitch in his left hand the slight slouch to his posture, though he's holding his shoulders stiff.

"Alright if I sketch on the couch?" Steve asks, already walking over.

"Knock yourself out," Tony replies.

The workshop always smells faintly of burnt wires and oil and Tony seems to bring those scents with him around the Tower, but where Steve might've disliked the smells before, now it's just become another aspect of Tony.

It's been about a half hour- Butterfingers holding Steve's pencil sharpener and DUM-E meticulously sharpening each one- when Tony speaks up again.

"Why do you come down here?" he asks, giving his bots a glance and not meeting Steve's eye.

Steve blinks at the other man, looking up from his sketch (it's of the Iron Man suit hanging disassembled from the ceiling) "it's…" Steve starts, having to stop to find his word. "It's familiar," he finally says.

"Familiar?" Tony asks back, spinning around in his chair. U comes up behind Tony, picking something out of the man's hair, he doesn't seem to notice.

"I used to do this with Howard," Steve begins. It's so odd, so strange to sit in a time that does not belong to him talking to his long-lost friend's son, being able to pick apart the similarities and the differences, seeing aspects of Howard- _the smile, the drinking, the showmanship_ -but also seeing parts he doesn't recognize- _the gestures, the eyes, the hidden guilt._

"I'd watch him work sometimes," Steve continues, "when we were waiting for orders and there was time to spare." Steve had always felt like Howard was speaking in a different dialect when he'd explain his work, but with Tony, it's a whole other language, a brilliance that Steve could never even begin to understand.

Tony makes a huffing sort of sound that Steve thinks he wasn't supposed to hear. "I don't mean it as a bad thing when I compare you to your father, Tony," Steve says, because he knows that Howard is a sore subject, knows that Tony isn't fond of his father, but he still doesn't understand _why._

"Not a good thing either," Tony says as he turns back around to start his work again.

Steve waits a handful of seconds -watches at DUM-E picks up a sea-blue pencil, and with Butterfingers' help starts sharpening it- before he speaks up again.

"You aren't your father, Tony. You aren't Howard," he says, running a finger along the outer parts of his drawing, he needs to get better at blending his colors. "I wasn't saying you were. I just…I like it down here, listening to you tinker, it's-it's…" Steve fumbles for the right word again, he can't seem to find it.

"Familiar," Tony repeats.

The word isn't exactly right, because while spending time with Tony in his workshop fills Steve with nostalgia (like so many things seem to do nowadays) it isn't the same. Tony isn't Howard and this futuristic lab is filled with pet-robots and so many bizarre things, it's so different so foreign from what Steve knew.

But it's started to feel more normal to be here with Tony than it ever did with Howard; Steve has stopped sniffing for cigar smoke and instead watches for the little dance-like shuffles Tony does, he doesn't wait for Howard to kick off his shoes or throw his tie at Steve, instead he listens as Tony mumbles out the words to a song Steve doesn't know.

So, in that way, yes, this has become familiar, but in its own right.

"Familiar," Steve says back, appreciating the weight that single word holds.

* * *

Bruce is always grateful when they go out on a mission and the team doesn't call for a Code Green.

Sometimes that relief makes him feel guilty in a way, knowing that his friends are out there putting their lives on the line, fighting alongside each other- while Bruce sits safely in the Quinnjet.

So, it's at times like this that Bruce tries to give a hand in any way he can.

The lights in the Quinnjet have been dimmed by Jarvis, Steve is sleeping somewhat soundly on the floor, nursing a dislocated shoulder after Bruce re-set it. Someone's placed a blanket over him, Bruce has a fleeting hunch that it was a certain redhead.

She'd just deny it if he asked.

Clint's sprawled out over a back-row of seats, one of his hands trailing the floor, his head in Natasha's lap as she runs her hands throw the bloodied knots in his hair.

The team didn't come out of this one unscathed, but they've seen worse, and _wow,_ aren't Bruce's priorities scattered- if his comparisons for injury and trauma are measured by whether they've been through _worse._

Bruce hums under his breath, they didn't need Hulk this time around, but it had been a close thing. Thor is back on Asgard for the time being, and that has left the Avengers without one of their main big hitters.

Not that Black Widow, Captain America, Hawkeye, and Iron Man can't handle their own, it's just...it's been an adjustment period.

Bruce turns his back to the remainder of the team, trusting Natasha to watch after Steve and Clint for the moment.

Tony is sat rigid and stiff in the pilot's seat, his eyes glazed over, he clearly isn't really seeing the night sky stretched out ahead of them, he isn't in this moment, far away in a daze that Bruce understands more than he'd like.

"You should try to rest Tony," Bruce says, leaning an elbow against the chair.

They won't be back for a few more hours, and Iron Man had gotten knocked around quite a bit. There's a gash across Tony's forehead and one of his eyes is blooming purple with a fresh bruise to cover the still healing yellowish one.

"I'm fine," Tony says, quiet, distant, not here.

Iron Man hadn't been fast enough to save a young girl, casualties are expected, inevitable in their line of work in a way that Bruce tries his best not to think about. But it's different when you are so close, when a cluster of seconds could have been what saved that person's life.

Tony had tried his best, but the building was already coming down, and both the girl and Iron Man ended up getting buried. Tony's hissed breathless cruse hadn't been for himself when the walls caved in, and Bruce had felt the gut-punching guilt in his own stomach when he listened to the sound of it over the comm.

"Jarvis can fly us back to the Tower," Bruce tries again, voice hushed, he's not sure if that's for the sleeping people's sake, or for Tony's. "And I'd still like to check you for a concussion."

Tony makes a scoffing sort of noise that tapers off in the middle, making it sound more like a gruff sigh. "Jarvis said I'm fine," he says.

"For my piece of mind, then," Bruce replies.

Tony spins around in the chair, because of course he does, letting Jarvis take over the Quinnjet as he allows Bruce to look him over.

It's once Bruce has shown his pen-light in Tony's eyes, making sure his purples are even and that he can track well- the whole time doing an admirable job of pretending he really thinks Tony might have a concussion and that he isn't just doing this to pull Tony back to the present-

That Bruce tells him, "it wasn't your fault," as he tucks his pen-light back into his pocket.

Tony gives a chuckle that sounds like it hurts on the way out, grating against his throat and slicing across the tongue. "Isn't it always?" he replies.

Bruce slips his glasses off, cleaning them on his button up as he talks. "All of us are to blame," he starts, "and also none of us. It's life Tony, people die, we can't always be there, we have the same amount of power over life as anyone else."

Tony finally looks up at Bruce, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "If any of us believed that we wouldn't be here."

Bruce nods, pinching his lips together. "The lives saved are something we can take pride in, and the lives lost will always be something we feel guilt over, that won't change, but that doesn't make it our fault."

Tony sighs, tired and worn too thin, Bruce can sympathize, can feel what Tony is feeling down to his bones. "It wasn't your fault Tony," he says one more time.

Tony nods, and Bruce doesn't believe that Tony agrees with him for one second.

* * *

There are nights filled with dreams of her past, others ruined by nothing more than regular insomnia, and then there are those rarer nights, the ones were Natasha just can't seem to _relax._

Most of the time she isn't even sure why; she gets caught in an autopilot of sorts, her mind restless and her body stuck on guard. It's not the same as insomnia where she feels tired but just can't seem to rest- it's like her brain has forgotten _how_ to sleep, or why Natasha would ever need to in the first place.

So, no, she isn't tired, not exactly.

She's on edge.

The redhead is standing on the roof of the Tower- letting the wind cut at her face and play with her hair as she looks over the cityscape- when she hears the creak of the door and footsteps approaching.

Too light to be Thor, missing the shuffle in the step so not Bruce, no bounce to indicate Clint, and without the stutter from when Steve sprained his knee on their last mission, which leaves-

"Tony," Natasha greets without turning around.

The man comes to lean over the railing with Natasha, not saying anything as he passes her a warm mug. It's cinnamon with a splash of cream, not her favorite, but it's soothing and spicy in the way she likes- Natasha wonders for a moment if the tea was Stark's idea or Jarvis'.

"Can't sleep?" Tony asks. He's sipping out of his own mug, looks to be coffee- and at three in the morning, she's guessing Tony's lost track of how many cups he's already had.

"Restless," Nat answers taking another sip and savoring the burn of cinnamon at the back of her throat. She's nearing fifty hours without sleep, Natasha can feel the fatigue in her joints the strain on her eyes.

She taps a beat on the handle of her mug, waits for Stark to subconsciously tap out the deliberate holes she left in the rhythm. Hiding her smile behind her cup when he evidently does just that.

"Thank you for the tea," Natasha breaks the silence, watching as Tony jerks back to himself. She wonders which one of them has been awake longer.

"Yeah," Tony waves a hand dismissively, "no problem."

Natasha turns to lean her hips on the railing, so she can better face Stark, the lit skyscrapers to her back. "You don't have to wait with me you know," she says softly.

"Does this help?" Tony asks, choosing to ignore her statement. "Standing up here, does it help?" He gestures with his coffee cup, looking out to the city and then back at Natasha.

Nat takes a breath, feels something like sympathy filling in the hollow parts of her bones. "Sometimes," she starts, giving a small shrug. "Sometimes the quiet helps other times it's being with people."

Stark sighs, looks down into his caramel colored coffee. "So you haven't found your patented band-aid."

Natasha presses her lips together, "have _you?"_ she asks softly.

"Distraction, mostly," he says, taking it as a non-rhetorical question. Tony pauses, sipping from his cup before running a slightly shaky hand through his hair. "Alcohol when distraction fails." He gives a self-mocking huff at that.

"We all have our ways of surviving," Natasha finds herself saying, she has the urge to lay her hand on Tony, to give his arm a reassuring squeeze; _she doesn't._ "Our experiences aren't the same and our coping mechanisms won't be either."

Tony gives a nod, not looking at Natasha, eyes on the lights of the city. "We all have our neuroses," he agrees, slumping in a way an untrained person would never catch.

Sometimes Natasha wishes she didn't spot as much as she does. Being able to read people, to see what they try to hide away, to pick out their tells and deduce their secrets- while immense in battle, wonderful for strategy and tearing apart enemies. It can feel like a burden when dealing with…well maybe 'friends' isn't the appropriate word, but neither is 'colleague'.

The K.G.B had taught Natasha how to kill, they hadn't shown her how to be human.

"True," Natasha hums, turning back to glance over New York, "doesn't mean we can't cope differently while together."

The K.G.B may not have trained Natasha in the normal ways that matter, but maybe with enough time, the Avengers will.

Tony actually laughs, shaking his head as he says, "the old man's rubbing off on you Romanov."

Natasha doesn't bother to disagree.

She doesn't try to hide her smile either.

* * *

Sometimes Clint wakes up feeling cold, it seeps into his chest and fills his veins with a foreign _wrongness_.

When that happens, it takes more than a hot shower or a hard workout in the gym to get Clint feeling like himself again.

Clint isn't the only one that has bad days, of course his teammates are all bound to have their _-'teenage angst session'_ as Tony has put it on occasion. Clint lives in a Tower with a Super Soldier from the forties, an ex-K.G.B. assassin, a traumatized genius, a man with a crazy case of split personalities, and a literal alien god.

So yeah, Clint's life is freakin' weird.

The thing is though, no one judges others for their crappy coping mechanisms, less than healthy sleeping habits, and their poor life choices in general, everyone just takes things in strides and rolls with it.

Clint likes the predictability of the unpredictability of these people, knowing in the back of his head this is the most solid he's had in way of living arrangements, in, well…since the circus maybe, but at the same time knowing this situation couldn't be further from normal.

The Archer stumbles out of the elevator and to the common floor, there's a single lamp on in the corner, so if not for Clint's great eyes he might've missed Tony sat at the bar.

"Do you ever sleep?" Clint asks as he plops himself down on the large couch.

"Sleep is for the weak," Tony says, and he's clearly verging on drunk, but he hides it well.

"I mean," Clint starts, "I won't argue with you."

"You're smarter than you look, Barton," Tony says, swirling something amber around in his glass before he downs the rest. "Drink?" he asks, getting up to refill his cup.

"Sure," Clint answers, resting his chin on the back of the couch as he watches Tony fiddle around with the alcohol, his hands shake minutely, Clint's sure he's not supposed to notice that.

"Long night?" he asks.

Tony snorts, "long life," he responds.

"You know I could fix that for ya," Clint says as Tony passes him a glass.

"You offering to kill me, Clint?" Tony raises an eyebrow, he gets cheeky when he's tipsy (well even more so).

"I'll even give you the friends and family discount."

Tony sits on the other side of the couch, crossing his legs and giving Clint an assessing glance, he looks contemplative for a moment, sipping at his drink. "Very considerate of you," he finally says.

"I'm a generous man," Clint agrees, taking his own swig.

It's been … some amount of time later and maybe three drinks too many when Clint has forgotten about the cold spreading through his limbs and Loki's fingers tainting all sides of his brain.

Clint's floating on the couch, feeling light and maybe just this side of giggly- so you know, the perfect amount of drunk, when Tony seems to snap back to the present.

"Why'd you join SHIELD?" Tony asks, he's slumped on the couch, blinking in a somewhat dazed state, he's in a suit, now rumpled and creased- Clint wonders what sort of fancy-pants function he had been at tonight.

"Why'd you become Iron Man?" Clint throws back.

"Touché," Tony chuckles and glances up at the ceiling like there's something interesting there, but when Clint casts his eyes up there's nothing, he wonders vaguely if maybe one of Jarvis' sensors rests at that spot.

"Why'd you let us live here?" Clint asks, letting his eyes trail over to the other man.

Tony makes a face, "didn't take you for a touchy-feely drunk, Barton," he says, clicking his tongue distastefully at Clint.

Clint leans his head back, messes with his left hearing-aid. "Didn't take you for a standoffish drunk," Clint says, tasting the residue of sticky liquor in his mouth. "Which again, makes me wonder why you'd let a bunch of misfit wannabe heroes into your clubhouse."

"Never before have I heard so many similes used in one sentence," Tony remarks and takes a swallow of his drink before he looks down at his glass, sighing as he seems to melt into the couch. "A clubhouse isn't much fun without members, Barton," he finally says.

Clint blinks, thinks that over. "Hm, who's the leader of the clubhouse?" he asks, choosing to ask a light stupid question instead of one that might end with Clint alone in the living-room.

"Well I mean I'd say we're a democracy," Tony waves a dismissive hand, "but there is always a defunct-o leader."

"Steve?" Clint asks.

"Or Thor if we're going for more the college sorority and less the boot camp route."

Clint chuckles into his glass, he doesn't feel chilled to the bone anymore, actually, he feels pretty warm.

* * *

Midgardians from what Thor can tell, need a more regular amount of sleep than Asgardians do. It's not a problem, for Jane is a traveler of the world and Thor has more than enough time to visit her while his fellow Avengers rest at night.

Thor, however, cannot always leave New York to go 'Sight See' with Jane or 'Play Dress Up' with Darcy, they all lead such hectic lives, and Thor does his best not to forget why he is here.

Though there might be times of respite, to hold revels and take joy in their victories- Thor is here because of the mischief Loki has left in his wake, there is still work to be done, battles they have yet to win.

Still, Thor has many responsibilities back on Asgard, Odin Alfather waits for Thor to take his place on the thorn and his comrades Lady Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, continue to fight without Thor at their side.

Thor knows all this, knows that his rightful place is on Asgard.

But leaving Midgard has proven difficult, these mortals, their lives are so short- it would not take long for Thor to miss so much, to come back and find his new friends, _The Avengers,_ that his love, _Jane,_ have all grown old and fled to the stars without him.

It is on these lonesome nights that Thor contemplates his choices, his responsibilities to his people against his desire to stay on Earth, to learn more from these humans and to live among them.

"What's up buttercup?" Sir Stark calls as he strides from the metal lift.

Thor glances to the other, he hadn't expected to see anyone for some hours. "I had believed everyone already asleep," he says, standing from the couch to follow Tony into the kitchen.

Sir Stark waves a hand. "Nah, gave up on that a while ago," he says as he opens up seemingly random cupboards, leaving each open as he continues his search.

"I had thought humans required rest each day?" Thor asks, leaning his hips against the counter with the toaster. The machine still eludes Thor, it has caught fire many times due to his ministrations, though it has never burst into flame while under anyone else's hand.

Thor suspects favoritism.

Tony shrugs, "depends on the person," he says, finally turning to look at Thor. "Geniuses, in particular, have trouble sleeping."

Thor cocks his head to the side, leveling the smaller man with a look. "Why is this?" he asks.

"Hard to turn their brains off," Tony says, returning to his hunt, Thor wonders if Sir Stark even recalls what he is in search for. "Get their minds to shut up long enough to pass out."

Thor considers this, scratching at his beard. "This seems like more a hindrance than a benefit," he comments.

Tony gives Thor an odd look, lips pinched together for a moment. "I've made a lot of headway, advances, and improvements while I should have _maybe_ been sleeping- So, so I wouldn't call it a _bad thing_." He pauses, rubbing a hand over his face, "but it's not necessarily a good thing either. Especially when it goes on too long."

Thor catches the minor alterations in Stark's behavior now that he is looking for them. The bend in his shoulders, the almost twitch to his left hand, the way he subconsciously rubs at the reactor in his chest.

The Captain has told Thor to watch for these things.

"How long have you been unable to shut off your mind, Stark?" Thor asks.

Tony does not speak for a moment, before heaving out a worn upon sigh. "Jarvis?" he calls to the disembodied helper.

"Am I to discount the 47 seconds you fell unconscious before jolting back to yourself?" Jarvis speaks from within the walls.

Stark rolls his eyes, this is not an uncommon thing for him to do, though it seems to stem from amusement and or fondness, nothing hostile or envious like the expression may have held when Loki executed it.

"Yes," Tony says, "you brat."

"It has been 83 hours, 46 minutes, and counting, since you last slept, Sir," Jarvis informs them both.

Thor is not fully familiar with how the Midgardians account for time, he, however, does not have to voice his question, because Sir Stark says.

"So about three and a half days, not even close to my record."

This does not lessen Thor's concerns.

Lady Natasha has told Thor why humans must sleep so regularly, it can cause many illnesses, both physical and phycological, they are so delicate these mortals, so easily breakable and fragile.

Even with that in mind, they are also resilient, so willing to fight and protect what is theirs. It is fascinating the way these people's minds work, in some ways so flawed but in other's so bright and new to Thor.

"So, you require a way to clear your mind?" Thor asks after a moment.

Tony gives a somewhat lethargic nod. "Any ideas?" he responds, having given up on his scour of their kitchen.

Thor smiles, beaming and wide. "To fly among the clouds or stars with no destination in mind is one of the most peaceful activities I can think of."

"Peaceful," Tony remarks, seeming to taste the word. Thor finds himself wondering why.

"Shall we try it?" Thor asks, straightening up from his position leaning against the counter. "I have not flown with a comrade in quite some time."

Sir Stark blinks at Thor a number of times, taking an instant to consider Thor's offer before he shrugs, saying, "Jarvis, get mark 16 ready."

"Of course, Sir."

And they're off.

* * *

Tony hates being sick.

And not just because of the obvious reasons.

It's one thing to have palladium poisoning or to recover after a harsh battle, to nurse a concussion or baby a broken wrist, and it's a completely other thing to get knocked down by nothing more than a _crappy immune system._

"This is ridiculous," Tony complains as Steve practically drags him from his lab, leading Tony out of the elevator and onto the common floor. "I'm fine," he says, hating the wheeze on the end.

Steve levels Tony with **The Eyebrow** , "Tony, you have _pneumonia_." He says it as if Tony doesn't understand what's going on in his own lungs.

Well, Tony is not a toddler. "Yes, _I know,_ Steve," Tony snaps back, and immediately regrets it, hunched over himself and coughing into his fist.

God his chest hurts; it's fire up his throat and scorching pain against his sternum. It's trying to breathe around infection and the too large arc-reactor, it's telling his mind to calm the hell down because this isn't anything serious- they caught it in time, he's on antibiotics, it's being taken care of.

This isn't anything like before, Tony isn't dying.

He's fine.

The rest of the team doesn't seem to agree with Tony's assessment however.

When Tony can finally catch his breath and right himself Steve is still standing there, wearing a mixture of his Sympathy-Face and his I-Told-You-So-Face, Tony is familiar with both of these faces, more time than not do these faces morph together to make one mega expression.

It's almost impressive.

"I'm fine, Rogers," Tony brushes past the other man to go flop onto the L-shaped couch. His landing jostles Clint but the blond just raises his eyebrow at Tony, Tony makes a sort of _what-can-you-do-?_ expression in response.

"Jarvis says you haven't slept at all Tony," oh god, the mother-henning, Tony would have never stayed in New York if he had known that Captain America was such a worry-wort. "Your body needs rest to heal, that requires sleep."

Tony shoves his face into the couch and pretends he's not on the receiving end of this particular conversation. He isn't an invalid, he's a freaking genius for crying out loud, he _knows_ that he should be sleeping, should be letting the antibiotics fight the infection while he rests up.

But he _can't_.

Tony can't sleep with this tightness in his chest, with his lungs struggling for air, with this fire burning inside his sternum. The moment he closes his eyes his throat clogs with dust and copper, Yinsen's voice and gunfire echoes in his ears, and Tony's bones ache and throb with the missing pieces of himself.

So no, Tony can't sleep, he's tried, and he _can't._

"You look like crap," Clint says from above Tony.

The billionaire rolls his head to the side so he can glare at the archer with one eye. "Same to you Barton."

"No, I'm not kidding Stark," Clint goes on, he's fiddling with a StarkPad, not looking at Tony. "You look like day old roadkill."

Tony doesn't dignify that with a response, just pulls himself into a semblance of a sitting position to lessen the pressure on his lungs as he slumps against one of their plush throw-pillows.

Tony scans the room while he tries to regulate his breathing, Steve has seemingly disappeared, taking his complaining with him, so Tony counts that as a win at least, even if he has to stay up here.

He'd like to be in his lab working like he's been doing for the past two days, but it seems that either Cap caught wind of Tony or Jarvis went and ratted Tony out. Either way Tony is ban from his workshop for now, and he knows better than to try to sneak back down there.

It is at times like this that Tony does his best not to think about the fact that he is a fully-grown man, capable of making his own decisions, no matter what Pepper or Rhodey or _Steve_ might say to the contrary.

"Here," a cup appears in front of Tony's face out of nowhere, the billionaire refuses to acknowledge that he may have or may not have zoned out for an unaccounted amount of time.

Tony glances behind him, finding Natasha looking down at him with a mock-stern expression. She jiggles the extended cup, threatening to spill its contents on Tony if he doesn't put down his Starkphone and take it from her.

The redhead comes strolling around the couch a second later, sitting in one of the armchairs as Tony glares at her over the rim of his mug. It's taking everything in him not to cough right now. "Steve sicced you on me," he accuses, voice tight.

Natasha glares right back, unperturbed, "throat sounds sore Tony," she says deadpan. "Bet a hot drink would help."

Clint snorts into his shoulder from his place beside Tony.

Kicking the Archer, though warranted, is probably a bad idea.

Nat and Tony have a stare-off for a few long moments, and normally Tony is great at staring death in the eye, but there's a cough building in his chest, making it hard to breathe, and after a minute or so Tony has to look away, taking a sip of the tea Natasha made him- it tastes like defeat and honey.

Tony goes back to working on the schematics on his phone, losing himself in the diagrams and numbers as he does an admirable job of ignoring Natasha's self-satisfied look and Clint's smug silence.

It is because of this, that Tony doesn't realize something is off until his mug is three-quarters of the way empty. "Romanov," he starts, and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. "Did you just roofie my drink?"

Natasha glances up from her book, giving Tony an innocent look, which in itself proves her lack of innocents. "Why do you ask Tony?" she says.

The billionaire does his best to scowl, his brain feels blanketed over by cotton-wool, it's making it hard to hold a thought. "I'm suing," he tells her, jabbing a finger in the redhead's direction.

Natasha just hums at him, not looking threatened at all.

Rude.

Tony blinks hard, trying to wake up his brain, but it isn't working, and time is slipping away from him. It's not necessarily a bad thing, these past few days have been hell for him not to mention trigger city, however, it's harder to focus on breathing when he can't seem to focus _at all._

Which is, disconcerting, to say the least.

Tony rubs at his chest, trying to alleviate some of the burning pressure he feels, before he taps a fingernail against the arc-reactor in a reassuring kind of way. There's more of a wheeze to his breaths now that he doesn't have as much control, which, wow, embarrassing.

Tony blinks and suddenly Bruce is in front of him, one of his small gentle smiles on his face. "When did you get here?" Tony asks, squinting at the man- hadn't Natasha been in front of him? With the tea? No wait, that was before.

"I live here," Bruce answers calmly, taking Tony's hand away from the arc-reactor as he places something cold on Tony's chest, and- _holy- whoa- yes-_ that is the best thing Tony has ever felt in his _life._

"Bruce," Tony slurs, closing his eyes as the cold-pack takes the edge off of his fevered skin. "You've saved my life."

Bruce pats Tony's shoulder, "glad I could be of service."

When Tony comes back to himself again he isn't sure how much time has passed, but someone's switched out the cold-pack for a hot-water-bottle so more than a few minutes.

He's shaking minutely which is, unfortunately, one of the symptoms of pneumonia but there's a blanket thrown over him, so someone had evidently noticed.

Thor sits next to Tony on the couch, he looks to be texting Jane, the amount of emojis the man uses is a crime quite honestly, Darcy should be punished for tainting their personal thunder god.

Tony can just make out the chatter of the other's in the kitchen behind him, the smell of some sort of meat drifting through the air. The flat-screen is playing something stupid and unimportant, easily tuned out but good for background noise.

Tony blinks dazed a few times, his chest is still tight, and his lungs feel heavy, but it doesn't bother him as much as it had before. Not with his team so close by, not with Jarvis watching out for him, not with these calming drugs in his system.

Tony sighs, feeling more relaxed than maybe he should.

He lets himself fall back to sleep.

* * *

 **I have been on a mad hunt for domestic and soft Avengers ever since I saw IW. So obviously, I had to write some myself.**

 ***sits on the sidewalk with an empty mug* _comments? Got any spare comments? Spare comments for a lonely writer?_ ಠ_ಥ**


End file.
